


Invincibility via Self-Destruction

by lovesrogue36



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Light Bondage, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veronica tries to get control of her life back after her narrow escape in the parking garage, but at Logan's expense. Set Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invincibility via Self-Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars nor am I associated with Rob Thomas.
> 
> My second Veronica Mars fic! Set up through Spit and Eggs, Season 3.

_“The only way to invincibility is through self-destruction” - Iva Marija Bulić_

Veronica sat in the dark, only the red neon sign in the window highlighting her features as she lounged in the desk chair, arms and legs draped over it in an approximation of relaxed even as her nerves hummed with restless energy. The light didn’t quite reach Logan on the couch but she could feel him from across the room, long limbs folded uncomfortably and his chin tucked against his chest as he slept.

It was almost unnerving to see him so still and quiet when normally he was constantly moving, always touching her and everyone else. Large hands always skimming her skin and her clothes, as though he craved contact.

Drumming her fingers on the desk and glancing away to the window, she thought how if she had a cigarette she’d light it just to watch the smoke curl in the dark because she might be self-destructive but that didn’t mean she’d give herself lung cancer for a little appropriate imagery. Veronica sighed softly, dizzy with the jumbled thoughts spiraling through her head on a loop, reaching up to untie the scarf covering the patch of missing hair on the back of her head and winding the silk through her hands.

Logan had hardly let her out of his sight since that night in the parking garage, the yellow lights flickering in and out of her blurry vision as he clutched her to him, tears in his eyes. She knew he blamed himself for letting her almost be hurt that way again, knew he was being over-protective only because he loved her. But he seemed belligerently unaware how stifling and victimizing it felt to have him guard her, as though she had suddenly lost the ability to protect herself against the world like she had done for years.

Like she had against him, once upon another lifetime, when he had put her through hell and she had given as good as she got.

Orange silk, or at least some cheap knock-off version thereof, spilled through her fingers and the thought came to her fully-formed, the way great ideas do, or terrible ones. Biting her lip, she glanced between the scarf and the dark shape of him on the office couch, and then a horn blared outside and her indecision was gone.

Lifting herself out of the chair one toe at a time, every creak suddenly impossibly loud in the silence, she slipped around the desk and knelt beside his head, the rough rug grating on her knees. He looked different when he slept, but not peaceful and unworried like most people do; rather, his constant vigilance in keeping up the mask of carefree boy faltered and suddenly all his pain and anger and fear were written on his face.

Veronica looped the end of her scarf around the table leg and knotted it before gently reaching for his hand, fingers lacing with his as she drew one wrist up to wrap the scarf around it and then the other. She noticed with detached interest that her hands stayed steady as she tied him tightly to the table, the scarf just biting into his skin so there’d be red grooves there when she was done.

His eyes peeked open with a begrudging frown, blinking at her as she leaned over him, hair hanging in her face with one knee on the edge of a cushion. A sigh escaped him and he tugged on his wrists, throwing a weary glance up at his arms stretched over the side of the couch at a decidedly uncomfortable angle. “What the hell is this?” he asked, words barely slurring in that way that never failed to make her straighten her spine and clench her hands into fists.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been tied up. Why, Logan Echolls, I thought you were supposed to be the sex god of Neptune High, making girls moan without even using your hands.” Her voice was light but she flushed, eyes tightening at the way his mouth pressed into a tired, thin line.

“Come on, Veronica. Don’t be like that.” It came out like one long sigh, exasperation and defeat sharing equal ground in his tense posture.

She squinted up at the neon-tinted stained glass, hand braced over him on the back of the couch. “Yeah, of course, you’re right. It’s stupid. How immature of me.” Pushing herself up, she stood in the center of the room, staring at file cabinets with her hands stuffed in her back pockets.

It should have felt wrong and a little bit depraved with her back to him lying there tied up on the couch but there was only a tiny twinge of guilt, or arousal. She could never quite tell the difference between those two, not with Logan.

“Veronica.” His voice was low and it took her several long seconds to bother turning around. When she finally met his eyes, they were clear and focused and she had to look away again quickly, his determination too honest. “This won’t give you your power back.” She grit her teeth, nails digging into the denim of her pockets. “But, I understand that you have to try.”

Her gaze jerked back to his. “And if you get a little tawdry sex for your trouble, you won’t complain?” It was sharper than necessary but he only shifted against the cheap couch, arms stretching back over his head.

“You’re going to do whatever you have to to feel like you’re in control again. I’d just rather be a part of it.” The implication stung. She considered untying him and kicking him out.

That fantasy never quite played out like she thought it should, not in all these years.

Veronica pulled her hands slowly out of her pockets, stepping over the piles of papers between them on the floor and lifting herself onto the couch, knees resting on either side of him. Sliding her hands onto his cheeks, fine stubble scratching at her palms, she held his stare for a long time, lips pressed together.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he murmured finally without breaking eye contact. “This is about you. You want control back? You take it.”

She hesitated a moment longer, not sure how to do that, how to take anything back, not when she had spent her life losing things that couldn’t be retrieved or refusing to let people back in after they disappointed her. But then he _looked_ at her and she darted a glance at the orange silk pulled taut over the edge of the couch and a shudder coursed through her.

Her first instinct had been to kiss him but that was too much their everyday and she wanted to feel just for a moment that this illusion of control was real; she didn’t want to be reminded that this man was at her mercy only because he allowed himself to be, only because he loved her. Instead, she sat straight up and pushed herself onto her knees, hands flying down to unbutton her jeans.

Silence settled into the crevices of the room, the red neon glow falling across her body as she lifted herself to toss her jeans and panties onto the floor. Watching the bob of his throat as he swallowed hard, she kicked one leg up over the side of the couch, pinning his arm to the rough upholstery. He winced and she ignored the flicker of satisfaction, tucking her other leg between him and the sofa.

“You’re going to have to do a lot more than just make me moan, Echolls,” she said a little louder and more firmly than necessary, filling the air around them with bravado if not genuine confidence.

“Whatever you say,” he breathed and she settled herself over him, his nose ghosting along the inside of her thigh.

Veronica gripped the top of the couch in one hand as she held herself up, letting him tip his head back as she slowly sank onto his mouth, thighs protesting. A groan tore through her at the feel of his tongue, flat and warm, spreading her open as he breathed deeply through his nose.

Rolling his wrists so he could grip the scarf in one hand, Logan sighed softly against her and she threw her head back, eyes half-closed as she drew in a sharp breath, fingers digging hard into the cushion. His arm was bent uncomfortably under her thigh and she thrilled a little at the choked whimper that escaped him as she shifted. He scraped his teeth over her, tongue pushing inside her shallowly, and she found she missed the feel of his hands on her thighs, the strength of his arms holding her up.

She pushed the thought away, lifting her free hand between her legs and rubbing quickly, precisely, but Logan leaned up, nipping at the tip of her finger. “Stop thinking,” he ordered hoarsely, sucking her finger into his mouth.

“Thought you weren’t going to tell me what to do,” Veronica shot back, staring intently down at him and steeling herself against the burning strain in her legs and the fog of arousal that came with the smooth, slick glide of his tongue on her finger.

“Stop thinking and I won’t have to,” Logan mumbled, the low, rough slur of his voice drawing a moan from her as he ducked his head, releasing her finger and dragging his tongue across her again. She slammed her eyes shut, her grip loosening precariously as she grew spilled helplessly onto his tongue.

He groaned softly against her thigh, abandoning any traces of composure and, instead, indulging his taste for her with an enthusiasm he reserved only for witty banter and sex. Her fingers fisted in the cushion, on the edge of the table, and she came hard, tongue caught between her teeth so she nearly drew blood, chest tight with held breath and stifled appreciation.

Veronica stilled above him finally, letting out a shaky huff before her eyes slowly peeked open to find him watching her, face slick with the evidence of her. She flushed, lifting her leg carefully off the edge of the couch and wincing at her body’s stiff protestations as she settled back onto his hips, jeans straining uncomfortably beneath her.

Clenching his jaw, he closed his eyes for a moment and she watched with a boneless sort of apathy as he adjusted under her weight. “Feel better?” he asked finally, after long stretched out minutes in the dark and the neon, his words hoarse and scratchy.

She pressed her lips together, one hand resting on his chest as she wiped his face clean with the pad of her thumb and plunged it into her mouth. “Not really,” she admitted, his eyes cracking open to look at her.

Logan didn’t gloat, just nudged her leg with his until she stretched over him, bare legs sliding across denim as she laid her head on his chest. She spared his stiff tied-up arms a mildly contrite glance, not to mention his hardness pressing into her hip, but he only dropped a kiss into her hair without complaint.

Veronica had to wonder what that said about him.

Her eyes drifted shut in the dark and she sighed against the soft cotton of his shirt. “Thank you. For letting me try,” she mumbled.

“What are lovers for, if not helping along the self-destruction?”

She felt more than heard the slow thump-thump-thump of his heart beneath her ear. It occurred to her to ask if that was really what he thought but somehow she didn’t think she’d like the answer.

He broke up with her two days later, sunlight bright and harsh, painfully opposite the imagined safety of nightfall and red neon.

_“You never need anything.”_

Veronica stood there squinting against bright sun, numb, and thought wasn’t that just ironic? Lay your soul bare and he thinks you don’t need anything.

Then again, maybe she hadn’t quite got the hang of laying her soul bare after all.


End file.
